The Seventh Priest
by skyward.eyes
Summary: The chance meeting that kept with it a story that would never be and held with it new chances to cover the gaps from 5,000 years ago.
1. 01 Missing Perspectives

**The Seventh Priest**

**This fiction was previously two independent chapters from **_**Galeway**_** (****.net/s/6280029/1/Galeway****) which then I decided to post as a new package of stories with a special epilogue that wasn't posted on **_**Galeway**_**.**

Summary: "I wouldn't say that he was a handsome man, because he had a passionate look on his face that was somehow intimidating. Regular girls would easily take him as handsome, but not for me, not for that stern air about him."

Disclaimer: I just own the plot.

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><p><strong>FIRST PART<strong>

**Missing Perspectives**

"_We will be together again…"_

I SAW HIM ONE SPRING EVENING at a small jazz bar located near a fashionable district in Aoyama. He was alone, his whole attention drawn to a book in front of him. It was early evening, still quite bright outside, but something told me that the man would rather be inside the dimly-lit bar, staying with himself. He was a book with its cover concealed, a rare insect protecting himself under an impressive skin. That skin was a classic Burberry trench, the newest model of Tag Heuer sport glasses and a pair of Ferragamo patent leather loafers.

He was sitting at a table right next to the window. I was attracted, alright; I'd never seen that kind of man in a long time. I wouldn't say that he was a handsome man, because he had a passionate look on his face that was somehow intimidating. Regular girls would easily take him as handsome, but not for me, not for that stern air about him.

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><p>THE JAZZ BAR was named after a vintage Jean-Luc Goddard film,<em> Pierrot le Fou<em>. Certainly not a famous one: more of a deserted jazz bar at the end of a small street. The atmosphere in there wasn't something I'd say as comfortable: The air reeked of dust, coffee, and leather. The owner was a woman in his mid forties and her young son about my age. Her smile was ill-at-ease as she welcomed me.

"Black coffee," I said to her, "Make it really black."

She smiled.

The man still had his eyes to the book. A medium paperback. I made an attempt to read a line or two, just in case I'd figure out the title. Not so that I would be able to attract him by talking about it later, I simply wanted to know what the book was. For such man the book would be half of his personality, probably even a nice seventy per cent of it. You would be able to know it by just one look that he was a voracious reader.

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><p>I SAT TWO TABLES AWAY FROM HIM. I'd rather a wooden chair and a simple wooden table. I disliked the impression of sitting lazily on a sofa. He was still reading very seriously, as if the world around him had vanished. His cell phone rang from time to time, which he ignored for several times before finally turning it off.<p>

The coffee arrived. I was still looking at him.

"Ever wonder why a man like that would rather be inside a ravaged jazz bar?"

The owner's son smiled as he moved the cup from the tray to my table.

I looked around. An old saxophone player and a pianist about the same age were on the small stage in the corner. They were playing their renditions of Bud Powell and Duke Ellington, lighting a cigarette from time to time, as if it was their lives that they were playing for. Really, that was a good performance.

"I wouldn't say 'ravaged'," I said.

"Then I take you are noticing that man," he said, "He's a frequent. I heard he's a boss of this big company."

I said nothing. When he was about to move a small glass of liquid sugar to the table, I waved it off.

He continued: "Whether that 'big company' is a Mitsubishi or not, I'm pretty sure he must be pretty damn rich."

"He sure looks 'damn rich'," I said, chuckling.

The man lifted his eyes from the book, took of his glasses, put it down on the table, took a sip of his coffee then massaged his eyes while glancing out the windows. The way he gazed outside gave me the impression that he was looking for a missing thing amidst the crowds and lights.

It wasn't even a minute later when our eyes met. The owner's son was still there by my table, but soon leaved with an unhappy look on his face.

The music on the background was "The Star-Crossed Lovers".

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><p>THE MAN SMILED. OR WAS IT A SMILE? It lasted for several seconds, very short, until he waved at the owner's son who was already behind the counter for a pack of Camels.<p>

"Are yours new?" asked the man as soon as the young man reached his table, "The last thing I want is cigarettes that taste like wet woods."

"New," the young man's voice trembled as he spoke, "We've just restocked them yesterday."

I waited for a while before taking my own book from the bag; probably our eyes would meet again. That never happened. He had returned to the book. I looked at him for a long time; I took him as an impressive stranger. All of his movements shouted grace and arrogance: The slim, long fingers he used to turn the yellowed pages, the ones that held the cigarette… His long, slim legs wrapped in fine suede trousers were crossed. The entire scene looked like a caption from an old European movie.

Then there was the song "Sophisticated Lady".

* * *

><p>I WORKED IN A SMALL LIBRARY IN SHINJUKU, a private-owned one. The library was never crowded. To start with, it wasn't even a very famous place. The biggest number of visitors was about twenty, or thirty. For years I'd never seen the record increased. I guess the place had sort of chosen its own fate. My grandfather's friend who owned it died last year with no heir with a passion for books, so I was kind of in charge of it.<p>

Come to think of it: the previous owner had dedicated his life to collect and read one rare book of another, and he died with no one willing to take care of what used to be his personal sanctuary.

The library struck me as having the life of its own, more like a world detached from the real one. I always believed too much collision with reality would bring the building crumbling.

The building was a mixture of old European and Japanese architecture. More of Japanese actually, except for the glass dome above the round hall in the center. Lights, moon and sun, would filter through, making the round hall looked like an area inside a blurred dream. The round hall was the only place visitors loved the most. Most of them would look up, sometimes for a long time, as if amazed before they sat down on a sofa nearby. Some of them had even told me personally that they took the round hall as a dream, or a sanctuary.

If there was only a visitor or two I'd go to the history books section then take a random title or two, most of them were translated centuries-old literatures of Egyptian history. I didn't know what it was about Egypt that got me enchanted: Once I started reading I could hardly put it down. I'd read for four or six hours with only a cup of coffee in front of me, and an occasional half-an-hour break. So much for this habit, I had gotten horribly skinny. My friends started criticizing my look, some had even accused me of concealing an eating disorder. I remained indifferent.

My "horrible" thinness was caused by thick, leather-bound old books of Egyptian history, nothing else.

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><p>THE TITLE OF THE BOOK I WAS READING was <em>The Seventh Priest<em>.

The introduction had mentioned that Priest Seth was among the seven honorable priests of an Egyptian Pharaoh whose name the writer couldn't discover because the emblem found around his mummified neck had been badly scratched as if to conceal the name. Priest Seth was, according to the book, a stern believer in spirits, especially of the ones inside sacred items called Millennium Items (The writer was experiencing difficulty at this point, because most recites from the transcription to justify the fact about the Priest being spiritual was heavy with [illegible] between the words).

The book was in diary format: Probably a diary of an unknown soldier or citizen in that era, the fall of the once-glorious empire. The writer, who had worked on arranging the ancient transcriptions into a story while adding lines of interpretations to complement the age-old literature, was an American who would be 101 if he lived up to this year.

I Googled his name and found out that he'd died a year after the completion of the book.

A mysterious cause.

_The __kingdom, once glorious, was struck by a sudden turmoil as a spirit-carrying thief [illegible] attacked the palace. The Pharaoh and his seven Priests had taken over the grandest responsibility to defend the kingdom. Most of the priests died defending it, among them one of the strongest one Shada and [illegible], the only priestess. _

_Priest Seth went missing during the fifth day of the ambush. He was later found escaping from the dungeon, carrying a silver-haired __woman in his arms. She was her lover, the possessor of the White Dragon Spirit._

_I discovered her name later, engraved on a simple tombstone, [illegible]. The Priest had buried her himself, having allowed no other hand to hold the woman's dead body._

_She was very beautiful even in death, [illegible], and I took her as having something inside her spirit, something that had held her beauty in place. _

I was about turn the page when a woman walked in. She was wearing a long white dress that looked good on her finely tanned skin. Her hair was very black and very long, and was let down. Her face reminded me of Greta Garbo's Cleopatra, only she looked more original and more Egyptian than the vintage Hollywood rendition. The way she walked were light, fast, almost seem from behind the counter that she was gliding on air instead of walking. She had such ghostly presence, but it was probably because of her haunting beauty and the cold kind of arrogance in her eyes.

She asked me for _The Seventh Priest_.

* * *

><p>"SORRY, THIS BOOK IS NOT AVAILABLE FOR RENTING," I said.<p>

She leaned closer and said in a low, piercing tone:

"You don't know, Lady," she said, "The danger that you're going to face is not going to wait until you've finished reading it."

I shook my head and smiled, trying to give the impression that I was unperturbed.

"I'm sorry for the inconvenience." I said, changing the topic. Something told me that the woman would launch into endless talks of ancient mysticisms if I played her game, so I'd rather not.

She took a small paper from her bag then wrote down her name and contact number. An Egyptian name: Isis. I took her as a perfect personification of the name: her haunting presence, her unbelievably good looks, her throaty voice… She left soon after she'd finished writing, without even a parting word.

_The Priest was torn between the dark desire of his father and his humanly kindness, an old priest [illegible] who was possessed by the spirit of death to draw the white dragon spirit out of his lover's body. To this, the Priest Seth had said that he'd rather let her __live. He'd rather live, despite his bleeding feet and another close step to the throne._

_The lover died at daylight._

I took the book everywhere: to my room, the dining table, to cafés or restaurants I visited during afternoon break… to _Pierrot le Fou_ after I closed the library at seven. That was the second time after a fortnight when I saw that man again. He was sitting right at the table by the window as he was the first time, reading a different book – a thick hardback this time – smoking his regular Camels with legs crossed. He had the same passionate gaze as he leafed through the pages, as he corrected the placement of his glasses, as he crossed and re-crossed his legs. The young man behind looked at him with a distant gaze, as if trying to tell himself that he would rather had nothing to do with the man.

I ordered my usual thick black coffee and was about to spread _The Seventh Priest_ on wooden table when the man looked at me. It was more of a suspecting gaze than an enchanted one, although I wouldn't mind both. He kept looking at me, then the book on the table, as if he'd known and read it over and over again. Before his death, the old owner had told me that _The Seventh Priest_ in the library was the only copy left in Japan, after its massive banning and burning back in the 60s.

He stood up then approached my table. He had a slim glass of thick red wine in his hand. "Can I join you?" he asked with his deep, dark, scratchy kind of voice. I nodded. (Honestly I'd rather this man left me alone, but who was I to turn down a stranger?)

"A very old copy, isn't it?"

"Yes, a… fifties edition," I said, "Probably even the publisher had been folded."

He smiled – _or was it? _Whether the man wanted to give me the impression that he was actually smiling or not, smiling was probably the expression he disliked the most.

"How would you know if the transcripts could be trusted?"

"Are you talking about the ones in the book?"

He nodded.

"Even these were stories which were collected to lead us into believing that they had once happened – only gods know," I said. "Besides, real or not, it is the essence of the history that got me interested, not the theories."

He glanced at his table for a while, to make sure that his book and cigarette pack were there.

"Sometimes you would know its realness by heart, not science."

I smiled. I didn't care how wide it was: his statement made me really glad.

"Say," I said, leaning forward, "Have you ever got that… distant, sad feeling as you read history books? A feeling of you being so close, yet so far from the history itself?"

In a low tone, he said:

"Yes, at times," he said, "Two books before this one I was reading was a rare edition about a young Egyptian Pharaoh and his seven priests. It was in French, because the author had been doing it discreetly in Algeria."

"Good transcription?"

"Bad transcription," he said, "There were too many unreadable bits between the lines. I wondered why in the first place the publisher had decided to publish the book, although the distribution wasn't meant to cover the areas outside the country."

"Sometimes reasons were just reasons, leave alone the cause." I said.

He smiled: another faint one.

"Say," he said, "a glass of red wine?"

I nodded.

"Name's Kisara," I said. "We've been talking without even knowing the names."

"Kaiba Seto," he said.

"Please tell me that you're _not_ the young CEO in the news?"

He lifted the glasses from his eyes. As he did so, his light brown hair brushed the tips of the rimless lenses.

"Unfortunately," he said, "I am him."

"The press is sort of having this… love/hate relationship with you," I said with a smile. "Where is your famous coldness? I couldn't see it today."

"It doesn't have to be with me all the time," he said. "Probably today's your lucky day, because I don't have it with me."

The red wine was served.

* * *

><p><em>IT WAS A DARK HUNGER <em>_that had taken over the soul of the Priest. After her death, all of a sudden he went after the throne, the half-collapsed throne, for a reason kept secret by the gods. The Pharaoh [illegible] agreed to hand it over on one condition: The Priest had to win a match in a battle of spirits…_

The woman Isis came again the following day. She stared at me right in the eyes with that piercing look of hers, telling me that the danger was approaching. "You would be able to sense it close, The Dark Heart. He is here in this present-day. He is approaching."

I pretended as if I hadn't heard a disturbing thing. I thanked her for her attention. She asked me again for _The Seventh Priest._ Again I told her that the book was a private collection, renting was prohibited.

"Lady, you and a man are in danger," Isis said. "You and a man that once had a connection in the past. The times were about to be interlaced atop each other – the old current and the new one."

I shook my head.

"Look, Madame," I said. "Really, I don't know what you're talking about: the time, the mysticism, and this one man with whom we would be in a danger. I know nothing, I am just a reader of these history books. I even had zero connection with the authors, dead or alive, or the original manuscripts. If you really want the book that badly, I could arrange a copy for you, but please never, never again trying to scare me off. I am just a librarian, a Nobody, perhaps and I have nothing to do with Egyptian history."

The time I finished talking, I felt as if I'd run out of breath.

"How about a glass of iced milk? I'm about to prepare one for myself as well."

She said nothing. I took the no-response as a yes, so I went to the kitchen then prepared two tall glasses of iced milk.

The time I returned to the desk, the woman had left.

I had a feeling that I would never see her again.

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><p><em>I SAW THE SPARKS AGAINST THE DARK SKY.<em>_ The match had taken place amidst the ruined palace; once the stones were majestic, the decorations brimmed with precious stones, but then in a week following the ambush of the Thief, everything had gone. Gone, as if the gods had decided to abandon the young Pharaoh, his kingdom, and the young Priest in front of him._

_The White Dragon Spirit tried talking to him from time to time, the Priest. She said that she would protect him, but not for the power he was about to take over. The Priest said nothing, but I had seen his face changed expression. I remembered the day I accompanied him to the street markets, where he had first seen the lover: He, Priest Seth, he had the same look in his eyes as the first time he landed the eyes on the woman._

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><p>FIRST DAY OF MARCH.<p>

It was raining when I met the CEO again at _Pierrot le Fou_. He had with him two books: one was the one he was reading, and the other one a slim volume I'd seen the first time I saw him with.

"There you are," he said. "Something told me that you're going to be here, today, so I have the book with me."

I suggested him to move from the sofa to my usual place, the one with wooden chairs. For a moment I'd merely forgotten that I was asking a very rich young man with a high social rank to follow my… request. It seemed rather surprising even in the mind.

"I may disappoint you," I said, "But I don't read French."

"No, that's fine," he said. "There are only about two pages where the story reached the peak – that was the time I felt distant, sad. I am going to translate them for you in my notebook."

"Much obliged," I said. "Anyway mine, the story makes me feel distant all the time. I'll lend you this after I'd finished reading, alright? I'm at the tenth chapter now; they were having sort of this… match of spirits, the Priest and the young Pharaoh."

"Seems like you have a lot more to tell."

I wondered for a while whether I should really tell him about Isis and her warnings. I wonder if he'd think that I was crazy, like Isis, or that he would believe me. All of a sudden I became aware of how I'd look in front of him. This insecurity was like no other: This was a sentiment from… a long time ago, a really long time. It was as if I'd experienced this specific kind of sentiment from in the past. When the past was, I knew almost nothing of it.

"There was this woman," I said in a low voice, "It was until two weeks ago she kept showing up, day after day, to warn me about reading this book, and that a danger is waiting for me and a man I'd known nothing of him yet. I thought she was some kind of a shaman, or magician. She had this ghastly presence about her – how to say – long makes short, she scared me off. I told her that I wanted no more warnings, but she never came back since then.

"Oh, she said something about the possible interlacing between the old time and the new one… Said that it is going to happen soon, the interlacing, and The Dark Heart is approaching: as in present tense. He _is_ approaching…"

When I finished talking, he said nothing, just kept looking at me.

I thought the story about the woman had scared him off, too, but then I realized that I was crying. My tears were falling like melted wax all over my cheeks, for the reason I knew nothing of. I wasn't even sad, really, I wasn't even really scared, to put it frankly. The tears kept falling, falling, soon my hands were trembling too. It was another sentiment that felt strange to me, a sentiment very distant yet very close. Something from a long time ago… but it wasn't from the childhood, no.

He took my trembling hand. _"Stay with me, Kisara."_ – the words echoed in my head, causing a headache. I felt really bad, as if I was about to throw up.

Probably I did, probably I didn't throw up. The next thing I knew was Isis's warning kept repeating itself in the head: _The Dark Heart is approaching… The Dark Heart is approaching… _I saw the world around me being swallowed into a perfect shade of white. White, then there was nothing else than the echoes intermingling with each other.

"_We will be together again, my lord."; "Stay with me, Kisara!"; "My son, you could take over the kingdom, take it over! TAKE IT OVER!"; "This Holy Match is going to give you no satisfaction, Seth!"; "We will be together again, my lord…"_

The last sentence sounded exactly like my voice.

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><p><strong>To my readers that had read this chapter as a part of <strong>_**Galeway**_**:**

**Thank you for the reviews, messages and subscriptions. You know how they have made my day.**

**To my new readers, thank you for taking the time to read.**


	2. 02 The StarCrossed Lovers

**The Seventh Priest**

**For****lesnuitsdhiver and Mara.**

Summary: He answered one last call and told me that we would meet again. _Would_ meet again, he said, and I felt that the phrase was lacking something. Probably it was me wishing that he'd say we should meet again, instead of would.

Disclaimer: I just own the plot.

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><p><strong>SECOND PART<strong>

**The Star-Crossed Lovers**

MY DIZZINESS LASTED FOR SOME TIME. The next time I knew I was running out of breath, beads of cold sweat in my hands. I thought I had gone to hell and back. I was trembling.

He was still holding my hand, and when I looked at him he had that surprised/worried expression on his face. He narrowed his eyes, as if trying to figure out what happened with me.

When he let go of the hand, I felt that the storms that were approaching had been calmed down. I breathed in the wood-scented air and ordered a coffee.

He lit a cigarette.

"I thought you were about to pass out," he said.

"Sure I was," I said. "I heard clusters of voices; like… noises."

He let out a leisurely exhalation. I loved the scent. The library owner smoked Camels, too, days and nights, as he read, as he took his morning and afternoon walks, before lunches and dinners… Take that away from him and I was sure that he wouldn't be able to live.

I smiled in that remembrance. Soon the turmoil I'd experienced earlier starting calming down, too.

"I guess you're alright now," he said calmly.

Silence.

The coffee arrived. He handed the full ashtray to the garçon and asked for a new one.

"I love the smell," I said. "Your cigarette. Mr. Yamamoto smoked them too. When he died I was sad. Sometimes I'd walk the corridors to find that scent. No more."

"And why are you telling me this?"

"For nothing," I said. "You happen to smoke the same brand, guess I gotta tell."

His cell phone rang. This time he picked it up: "I'll be there in fifteen minutes."; "Prepare the papers, as always, then clean up the meeting desk. Not a single spot of dust."

I sipped on my coffee. He hung up.

"Work," he said. "Here's my notebook and name card. Contact me soon when you've finished reading the translation."

He stood up, waved at the counter as if to tell that he wouldn't need the empty ashtray anymore. He walked there and paid the bill.

I waved at him as he left the café.

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><p>I WENT TO THE LIBRARY to check on the locks, the desks, and the sofas once more before finally taking the book from the reception desk where I'd left it. I prepared for myself a glass of iced milk before I went home.<p>

I thought of the meeting as I was onboard the train. I felt stupid, really stupid. "Sometimes I'd walk the corridors to find that scent." Why did I say it? To shake off the thought I plugged the earphones then listened to Ryuichi Sakamoto.

The notebook in hand, I started reading. It was a five-minute ride home, plenty of time for three or four pages. Impeccable translation, I had to say. I didn't know whether it was the original passages that sounded that way, because the lines in English were really fluid, as if I was reading it straight from an edited book.

_The thief had with him Zorc Necrophades, a demigod whose __half of the body shaped like a giant snake. He carried the spirit as he ravaged the castle, killed the guards even slaughtered the priests. The Pharaoh fought against him in the end, although the result was unknown. Assumptions said that the Pharaoh, undoubtedly, won because his mummified body was discovered intact._

_However, the body of the thief remained unknown. It was never found._

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><p>IT WASN'T UNTIL ANOTHER TWO WEEKS when we met again at <em>Pierrot le Fou.<em> I never called him, I just had the feeling that he would be there. He _belonged_ there.

The air smelled of Camel. He took off the glasses then pressed on his forehead lightly before he greeted me. I returned the book. I told him that the translation was amazing. "I wouldn't agree. It was something rigid, imperfect. A draft, I may say."

I wouldn't try to change his opinion. Sure, I thought, he was a dyed-in-the-wool perfectionist. Trying to remind someone like that about how awesome his work already was would only pressure him even more.

_The seventh priest was Seth. H__e was among the most brilliant and most trusted ones besides Shada and Isis. An old transcription said that he was trying to save his lover (a vain attempt) before finally faced a bitter fate in which he had to kill his possessed father. The failed attempt to save his lover's spirit from being extracted by his father during the final hours got him badly damaged at heart. _

_Finding no way out to express his depression and vengeance, he focused on taking over the kingdom. In that attempt also included challenging the Pharaoh in a sacred match._

"So," I said, changing the topic, "I'd read about Priest Seth's lover."

He put back his glasses then lit a new cigarette. His usual red wine arrived.

"I have to say it was pretty hardcore," I continued.

He chuckled. For the first time since I'd met him, that expression, that happy expression, seemed real enough.

"He got the powerful spirit, though, but he wasn't happy with that," I continued.

Silence; such immense silence that the music played by the band sounded distant. He looked at his hands on the table as if doing a deep thinking.

This time he was the one that looked as if he was about to pass out. The cigarette fell from between his fingers then unconsciously elbowed the wine glassoff the table. The garçon rushed to our table, panicked.

"What the hell? Mr. Rich got sudden heart-attack?" he whispered then quickly stepped on the cigarette on the floor. Too late: a burnt spot was already formed.

I shook my head then asked for a glass of cold water.

When he finally returned to his senses, I told him to drink the water. He remained quiet for a while; quiet, even when his cell phone vibrated over and over. It was as if he had forgotten about his existence, where he was.

He drank some more. Taking a deep breath, he was about to light a new cigarette when I told him not to.

"Feel better?"

"Those voices," he said in a low tone, almost whispering.

I was about to ask him about what he'd heard, but decided that it would be better if none of us mentioned that, at least for now. Bad dreams, Egyptian stories and voices… leave them alone for now, I thought.

Half-past four. The time where he should return to the office. He answered one last call and told me that we would meet again. _Would_ meet again, he said, and I felt that the phrase was lacking something. Probably it was me wishing that he'd say we should meet again, instead of would. 'Would' made it sounded like a premonition.

When he left I knew that I should call Isis.

* * *

><p>SHE CAME TO THE LIBRARY in her usual majestic manner. Pure Greta Garbo and her fifties Hollywood charm. She was so beautiful I felt as if I was a little nothing standing in front of her. Probably that was the reason I never felt at ease around her.<p>

"I'm sorry for the unpleasant things that happened between us," I said. "You can have the book now, really, if it endangers me I'd rather keep away from it."

She smiled. A dark, mysterious smile.

"Too late," she said. All of a sudden I felt an abrupt need to slap her here and now. First, it wasn't like I believed her. Second, once I decided that I wanted to keep myself safe, she told me that it was too late.

"The Dark Heart is already close, I guess," I said, playing her game. I wondered what she would tell me later.

"You shouldn't lose hope, though," she said. For the first time since I met her, the way she encouraged me this time seemed friendly, even human enough. I felt ashamed to had wanted to slap her earlier. "Remember the man I told you about earlier? He had saved you in the past, although it was a failed attempt, and in the future when everything is unlocked, and the passage of time has repeated itself once more, big is the chance that he would be able to successfully save you in this time. Let alone the past."

I pondered about the sentence for a while.

Among the seven priests was Seth,…, who was trying to save his lover.

If this was inside a movie, I would laugh until I couldn't pull my tongue back in anymore.

"By any chance could this man be Priest Seth?" I asked her, still attempting to adapt to the freaky talk. I wished that she would suddenly break into a loud laughter and told me that everything was a crazy joke, and that I had succumbed to the entire scenario.

"The Priest in the present-day, yes." She didn't break out laughing! I wondered if I should be serious. Probably I was trapped inside this nightmare and the darkness was slowly consuming my sanity, taking away the common senses in me. I didn't know….

I rummaged through the memories about the Priest of Egypt's physical descriptions._ His skin was in the shade of olive, his green resembled a pair of raw emeralds then there was his brown hair…His majestic way of dressing up, his slim, nimble fingers he always moved with grace…. _(If the Priest did exist in present-day Japan, he would've been a model or a movie star, someone who had probably been exported to Hollywood, like Ken Watanabe.)

Impossible.

I still wished that she'd break off laughing. She didn't; she even kept that serious look on her stunning face, which hurt me even more. The last thing I wanted was to look for some knockout movie star and told him that he was the one who could save me from "The Dark Heart". Even if I managed to see that person, he'd probably take me as a regular nut then got over it.

"I take it that he lives with a different name, different face then?"

I hoped she'd say something like: Yes, different name, different face. He was probably ugly in the present-day, but the inside remains the same; the good old Priest Seth.

That way the possibility of him being some kind of star could be narrowed.

"Different name, probably, as with the features, some would remain the same…" she said in a low voice. "I had seen many reincarnated people… they retain their old features, although there are changes, insignificant ones, like the color of the skin or eyes."

Excellent.

I thanked her and offered her a cup of coffee. This time, though, she didn't leave until she'd finished the coffee. "Excellent coffee," she said.

We chatted some more then a little before six, she excused herself.

When she left the room I rapid-fired the internet looking for information about young actors, writer, painters, bosses that were handsome and was on a constant rise to the top. Here it was! _Top Twenty Young Men in Japan You Should be Aware Of._ A list. Most remained the same; your regular movie stars and band singers, the sons of some tycoon who had won a multimillion deal, I scrolled down the page, scrolled and scrolled until I reached number one.

Kaiba Seto.

I clicked on his name, triggering a whole page filled with his data, quotes, even fashion spreads and formal shots. A recent shot was quite minimalistic, although he showed some flesh. Stunning, really, not that behind the camera he'd turned into a different person or that the editing was over-the-top, but it was more like without the thoughtful look on his face, as he toned down those intensities a little, I could finally see his beauty.

It is said that Kaiba Seto had been offered a role in a short independent movie, that is, an idealistic work of a famous movie director R, based on a novelette by Murakami Haruki.

All the time I had been talking to a celebrity.

No wonder he'd rather be locked away in _Pierrot le Fou_. Downtown, young girls would tear him alive.

_Kaiba, of course, turned down the __offer. He said he was suited more behind the desk, not behind the camera. With the refusal the director finally decided to decline the making of the movie, having refused other real actors that offered to play in the movie for free._

Then there was a close-up portrait.

I tried to concentrate on his features that probably resembled the descriptions inside the history books. I thought I had really gone mad this time: I compared the face of a real, breathing person to the descriptions aged beyond five thousand years old.

I couldn't. He was too handsome.

* * *

><p>THAT NIGHT WAS THE NIGHT I HAD A NIGHTMARE. It was about a spirit and a raven-haired man trying to find their way out of a ravaged underground dungeon. I recognized the stones, the slices of indigo sky I could see through the collapsed stones, even the silence… I could hear, recognize it. The next time I knew I was in front of a ravaged cage, but it wasn't where the thief was imprisoned. My veins were filled with a strange coldness, as if something had entered me, something that was inside this ravaged prison. It was calming, the time when it went inside me. I tried to find a way out, but this underground prison was too ruined, as if it had been let alone for a long time to rot there, to be one with the nature. Some stones were already very fragile; a gentle step could crush them into pieces. I hoped that there was nothing that constructed the wall reacted that way, less I'd be killed.<p>

Someone was waiting near the entrance; at least I took that slice of light for the entrance. That person came in the form of silhouette, I could only see the outlines of his figure, as lined by the lights.

He extended his hands as if reaching out to me.

I woke up.

THE DREAM, at first I thought it was just because Isis had influenced me. I simply refused, inside myself, to believe that I had gone 'spiritual' like her. When it kept recurring, I was forced to see the possible outcomes of fact. Two entities, a thief and his snake-bodied spirit, were trying to break loose. For now the ruins still prevented them from doing so. Then there was a ravaged prison then that something that went inside me in a soothing way. A man was reaching out to me near the entrance… I rearranged the pieces, as if trying to write down a story. And I did; I wrote it in my notebook. Soon enough I could see the images when I was wide awake.

Still, everything had taken such a massive turn I hardly had a time to reflect. Everything was strange. First there was that meeting with Kaiba Seto, then came the scent of his Camel that reminded me of the late Mr. Yamamoto. Soon we were already talking like old friends because of Egyptian history. Then there was Isis and her warnings. I heard voices. He'd recently heard them too, Kaiba. Everything, everything was lightning-fast, I thought I'd rather someone take me out of this hole before those dreams started consuming me bit by bit… ever so slowly.

Soon I'd be no more if I was forced to live this kind of life.

Which one was dream, which one was reality?

Soon I was trying to match his face with someone in a five thousand years old history.

The main question was: Why was I so sure that he might be Priest Seth in the past? Say he was; would he remember? Then where would that put me in that ancient history? That I was his lover whose spirit was extracted by force by his possessed father?

Then the thief and that spirit, where would they be in this present-day?

Bad omen.

I simply couldn't imagine a raven-haired man possessing this grotesque spirit onboard the trains or walking the streets of downtown Tokyo after dark.

A bit more of these and soon I wouldn't be able to separate madness from sanity.

* * *

><p>I CAME TO <em>PIERROT LE FOU<em> three days later, seven in the evening.

It was raining, a light drizzle. He wasn't there. I waited for him to show up, smelling of Camel and leather. He never did.

All the time during the waiting that day I felt as if I was waiting for ever.

* * *

><p>"I'M HAVING A RECURRING DREAM."<p>

It was a month later, the meeting. He'd been busy and the press had been hunting him like hungry hawks. The famous movie director tried his next luck and had been phoning him as if there was no tomorrow. He was well worn out, and the signs were on his face.

"I wouldn't mind a long story. I have enough time to kill," I said.

Funny, this understanding. He had never even asked me that he wanted to spill everything out, but I just understood.

"A thief, I think, raven-haired, and his oddly-shaped spirit, like a… a snake were trying to break free from this… ravaged dungeon," he said, carefully arranging the words. He certainly wasn't the type that tells long stories. "Then I was standing near this – how to say – entrance of this ravaged dungeon. I was trying to save someone, but that person was so distant I couldn't see the face. And that someone was… a precious person to me. I felt as if all I needed was to reach out to her, to save her… I don't know."

He stopped abruptly, as if feeling ashamed of himself of having spoken so many.

I leaned closer to him, to tell him that it was alright to continue.

He hesitated a bit then started telling the story after he'd lit a cigarette.

"You were telling me about a precious person trapped in the dungeon."

"I take the emotion I felt in that dream wasn't real," he said. "I had never felt like that before… not a long time. In the dream I felt as if I almost… _loved_ her, but then I don't know how to describe it without making myself a laughing stock. I'd rather stop here, if you don't mind."

I nodded. I sipped on my coffee, and he his red wine.

Silence. For a long time, it was only us and the same band.

He called the garçon and handed him a wad of money. "For the band."

I thought of that young man, the son of the owner, I wondered after this day he'd still take his mother's good old _Pierrot le Fou_ as a 'ravaged bar'. Probably wouldn't.

I decided to break the silence after several minutes passed by. I thought he was still ashamed of himself, of not being able to keep his cool, of had spoken too many…

"You know, I have a recurring dream too…"

* * *

><p>HE DIDN'T COME TO PIERROT for a long time since that night. Soon I was checking everything about him from the internet, like an infatuated admirer. I looked at two more recent fashion spreads in which he was wearing all-black, including a designer leather jacket; a very expensive piece, I recalled, it was from recycled and reconstructed leather of a jacket that was once worn by a famous British rock star in the 60s.<p>

He was born for that jacket. But not for the long stories.

I imagined the phone calls from the movie director. Then the editor of the fashion magazine telling him to take the jacket with him. He'd probably pull out those fat wads of money and got it right away.

No news about him, no phone call. I started feeling empty. I started feeling as if my regular days in the library, the days I used to sink behind books, had gone somewhere.

The excitement I felt was no longer there.

I was thinking about him in a strange way.

It was as if I almost loved him.

* * *

><p>FIRST DAY OF AUGUST.<p>

Fall was approaching. The air was piercing cold. As usual I visited Pierrot after the library was closed. Like a recurring dream, he was there, like the first time I saw him. He was wearing the camel trench coat, same leather shoes, wearing those glasses, he was even reading seriously with an ashtray and a glass of red wine in front of him. Just like the first time. The difference was that I didn't take him as a stranger anymore.

_Where the hell were you? _I felt that need thick and clear. Another second and those words would come out of my mouth.

He turned at me and smile. The band was playing "The Star-Crossed Lovers". I walked toward him, slowly, very slowly, as if savoring the melody suspended in the air.

The dimly-lit interior, the languorous saxophone play, his elegant gestures as he waved at me…

I sat facing him. He put down the book in his hand then looked at me.

"I'd figured it out," he said. "These months I'd been trying to figure it out, to find a better way to tell."

The hesitation that was once there was no more. In his place, a new person seemed to be taking an old place. He no longer had that cold, threatening air about him. Now the elegance was well mixed with peace and his good old mysterious nature.

I was ready for some more madness. Even if he'd say that he was once Priest Seth, I wouldn't be surprised.

No longer I wanted that this entire drama about past-life and The Dark Heart was some joke. It would be such bitter ending, after all it had done to entangle me in.

"Do you believe in reincarnation?" he asked.

I nodded, although I wasn't a hundred per cent sure, I nodded.

"You know, the first time I saw you walked in here, I thought I had known you somewhere," he continued. A weight dropped from my heart. "I didn't say that, of course because I was aware that you would take me as some crazy, desperate person. But even now, I thought we had met somewhere…"

He sipped on his wine then brought the cigarette to his lips.

"Hey anyway," I said, trying to break the seriousness. With the music still playing in the background, this scene was dangerous. I could be easily carried away. Probably I'd even really _loved_ him the time the conversation was over. "The woman Isis mentioned something about it too, the reincarnation, and that Priest Seth's essence is alive inside someone in this present-day Japan. Please tell me that she was as crazy as I thought she was."

"I'd rather think that she was serious." he said, crushing the cigarette butt in the ashtray

"I wonder," I said. "Then, hypothetically speaking, they are probably destined to meet again, to fall for each other again, that he would keep her save this time to cover the past faults…"

He smiled. A real, vivid smile this time.

"Hypothetically speaking, those are possible, yes." He was looking at me right in the eyes as he spoke. Time felt as if it was passing slower than its usual pace. I was trembling – joy or fear?

The music had finished playing.

He told the garçon that he wanted the band to play it again, "The Star-Crossed Lovers".

The voices repeated themselves in my head again this time, and I bet in his too; Pleasant repetitions this time.

We remained staring at each other for a long, long time.

As if there was no longer past or future, I was sure that the burdened passage of time had since long made its exit.

* * *

><p><strong>The epilogue following this chapter wasn't available in <strong>_**Galeway**_**, but in here it is. :)**

**Enjoy!**


	3. 03 Probably

**The Seventh Priest**

_à Mlle D. : special epilogue ;)_

Summary: "I'll keep that 'probably' in me."

Disclaimer: I just own the plot.

**The Seventh Priest**

**EPILOGUE**

**Probably**

"I'M GOING BACK TO HONOLULU," I SAID. "It's not like I don't like it here in Japan, but after such good, long years here I thin I'll have to get out of the shell for some fresh challenges; this library can't lock me here for ever. I'll eventually have to go somewhere else, I need to keep moving. I need to lead an active life. I think the good place to start is the place where I was born."

He nodded.

Outside, the streets were bathed in summer sun. The air was warm and heavy, the kind of air that would make your shirt clings to your body after a ten-minute walk. All the dreams, the history I'd read, the warnings, they were alive as long-lost dreams. I approached the window then unlocked it. The smell or dried leaves and dry earth went in.

Then I looked at Kaoru, the new assistant who'd been here since the last days of spring and said:

"He's soon to be the new proprietor. Mr. Kaiba."

Kaoru was shocked. She wanted to say something, but she couldn't. Then, with her eyes, she asked me, as if refusing to believe her own: He is _the_ Kaiba?

"Yes," I said. "The real, flesh-and-blood Kaiba Seto."

Kaoru was his big admirer. She had his pictures and magazine cutouts on the wall of her room, in her diary, as bookmarks for her novels and college textbooks…. When he greeted her she was pretty much stupefied. He must've made her feel very ill-at-ease, that was the common effect he evoked in people at first meeting, including me. He was the type of person who, regardless of his smile and calm gestures, would make you feel uneasy just by looking at him straight in the eyes. It was almost as if he had kept for himself so many judgments that were to be left unspoken.

"I've spoken to 's eldest son. " I said. "He decided that the rare books are to be sold as valuables. They worth dimes, you can see."

He nodded.

"I've seen the price," spoken as easy as if he was just telling me that it was summer already.

"I may have to cut several unnecessary expenses for the next two or three months," he continued, "However, the fight is worthy enough." He smiled.

"Mr. Yamamoto would've been glad," I said. "Besides, Kaoru here has volunteered to help; starting at four until the closing time. After you own it, of course, you're free to alter the schedules."

"I see," he said. "When are you going to leave?"

"Tomorrow, catching the midnight flight," I said. "So to say, this will be my last night in Japan.

"Come," I continued. "I'll show you around."

I WOULD NEVER FORGET THE SCENT of those dusted wooden shelves and books. The discreet scent of tobacco that had since long left his place but for that night, as if the library was telling me its final goodbye, the scent was there. It seemed to me that the time had slightly reversed its slow, trying to keep me here.

For a long time the library had become a part of me, had become me. Most people have such sentiment before they leave the place they once loved, they had once known well enough. The sense of attachment, it seems, would stretch its hands one last time before a separation. All former owners understand that.

During the tour he was mostly quiet. He inspected every corner with care, not suspicion. I knew that he wouldn't plan to change anything. He wouldn't even change the name. That, until I showed him the piano room in the attic. He approached the piano right away, as if being pulled by some kind of force, then tested the sound.

"It has been here since the sixties," I said.

He said nothing, sat down on the bench then launched right away into the first five bars of "Träumerei".

"Why don't you play the rest of the song?" I asked.

And he continued.

Bathed in scotch-colored light filtering through the wide-opened windows, the room seemed as if it had the life of its own. This was one of the last songs Mr. Yamamoto played before he got hospitalized for lung cancer. I looked at the unmoved ashtray and cigarettes in it; all of a sudden I felt as if they were newly put there, that the scent was there again, and Mr. Yamamoto was there, playing the piano in front of me.

At the end of the song, I said:

"You can take the piano for free."

He turned to me abruptly. Shocked.

"The piano and the library are one," I said. "I simply can't imagine the idea of making a fortune out of it. Besides, I don't want to make money out of my only connection with Mr. Yamamoto; a connection I'd gotten for free."

After a while, I added:

"Mr. Yamamoto used to spend his days here, if not in his private office reading, playing the piano, cigarette dangling from his lips…. Look," I pointed at the top of the piano. "I didn't even move the ashtray when he died. The cigarettes neither."

"A bit heavy on the eccentric side, aren't you?" he asked with a smile.

"Hey, it's good to have at least an anchor to anything; the past, a person whom you want to remember, even the future. It feels good to realize those connections are there, waiting for you."

"I see," he said. "I'll play another piece for you, my favorite piece, as a token of appreciation for getting this thing for free; how does that sound to you?"

I nodded.

The next piece he played was Chopin's famed piece, "Fantaisie-Impromptu".

"Anyway, I plan to spend the night here, if you don't mind." I said when he'd finished playing." I just want to make sure that the goodbye is proper enough."

He chuckled. I'd seen him several times like that, chuckling, but that was by far the most graceful one. The chuckle without any weight attached to it.

"Honestly you don't even have to ask," he said. "This place is yours until tomorrow."

IT WAS A SOMBER, LONG NIGHT, probably by far the longest one in my life. Of course I didn't sleep. I wanted to make sure that my last night here was spent with my eyes opened. I would stare at the long goodbye in the face. This time, I thought, I don't want to run away from it. Not for this separation or the other one that is to come. Not now.

A bit past midnight, he came to the library.

"I want to be here during the first seconds of my ownership," he told me. "I want to see the library in its most beautiful state, after midnight."

"My favorite time of the day. Time moves slightly slower at this time of the day."

"I agree," he said. "I always want to believe that."

Silence.

I noticed him. He had on a light linen shirt that exposed his long neck, a pair of light brown chinos that were cuffed at the ankles and a pair of white patent leather shoes. His hands shoved into the pockets. On the right wrist, a slim Omega watch. Even in a look that was far less stern than usual, he still had that distant feel about him. Me, I had on a light tribal-patterned harem pants, a cropped black corset top and a lace jacket, also in black. Tan moccasins to complete the look. Our outfits, I thought, were the ones destined for summer.

An idea crossed my mind. I said:

"Say, Kaiba—"

"Seto, please."

"Alright, Seto, say; would you be game for a pointless walk after midnight and cheap beers?"

He thought about it for a while then nodded.

THE CAR WAS A VINTAGE CITROËN 2CV, custom-painted in gold. "Makes me feel human," he said. "Limousines and Maseratis strip you off such sense."

He parked the car in front of a crowded game center, that moment I knew that was the starting point he'd chosen for our 'pointless walk after midnight'. I smiled to myself. Before he stepped out of the car he put on a different pair of glasses; they had thin silver wires surrounding the narrow oval lenses. Walking casually like that, with a toned-down look, despite the almost obvious star aura about him, he managed to blend in with the fashionable crowds well enough.

"I wish Pierrot still opens at this time of the day," I said.

"Jazz and the night, huh," he said. Then after a while: "I know a bar."

"Not something you would call_ très chic_, but it's a place where, I'd heard somewhere, DJ Taku Takahashi loves to visit whenever he feels like being human."

We walked the streets. We saw the lights, the crowds with platinum-blonde and even blue-dyed hairs. The city had its own rhythm at this time of the day, despite the songs that could be heard playing across the streets.

In the end we didn't go to that bar he'd mentioned about earlier. We stopped by a small bar right in front of a Seven Eleven. It was a bar packed with young crowds wearing suede summer boots, fringed bags, and tribal-patterned vests and shirts.

The song that was playing in there was the original version of "September".

The song he liked.

WE ORDERED FOR EACH TWO CANS OF CORONA. The music in the background was another throwback to the past: "I Can't Go for That". He smoked his cigarettes, occasionally drumming his fingers on the counter following the beats. That was the type of person who made a glass of beer looked like a glass of Chardonnay. He certainly wasn't born for cheap beers and messy bars. Looking at such contradiction, I felt as if I was inside a Yoko Ogawa novel.

The young bartender recognized him, despite the dim lights. He asked:

"Why did you decline the movie offer? Those young actors would kill to be inside that kind of movie. Based on a Murakami novelette, think about it, the offer was pretty darn amazing."

"Some things in your life you rather not have," he said coolly.

The young bartender shook off the answer and handed Seto a magazine cutout for him to sign. "I'll sign it," he said. "If you wouldn't tell anybody else about my coming here, at least not when we are still here." He looked at me.

Of course, he agreed. When he got the signature, he shoved the picture back into his wallet, then pretended as if he had just been talking to a regular customer.

We stayed there until a bit past two then took a walk in a park nearby.

Most lights were off. This, I was sure, was the time where dawn struggles to leave the presence of the night behind.

MY HEAD WAS LIGHT. I wasn't a good drinker; two cans were enough to put me in a good mood.

We were sitting on a bench. He was smoking. All of a sudden I felt a great need to cry; probably being half-drunk and all, then the scent of Camel. What would Mr. Yamamoto think? I asked myself. Tomorrow, at this time I'd be onboard a plane to California. I would soon see my aunt after six years.

Soon all sensation I was feeling at this moment would turn into clusters of memories.

"What time is it?" I asked.

"Two forty-three, "he said, letting out a leisurely puff.

"Why_ two forty-three,_ out of all times…."

He chuckled.

My head started to throb. I was really a bad drinker. On the other hand, the two cans held no influence over him. He remained right as rain.

"Hey, Seto…."

"Yes?"

"You never struck me as the type of person who would get married." I even wondered why I said that. Then as if possessed, I added: "You're probably too cold for that. _'Too hot for bed, too cold for lovers'_—ever heard that?"

At this time, I felt that losing my head would even be better.

"Yeah," he said. His answer was unexpectedly calm as if he was talking to himself. "When I was in the university, there was this person, Jounouchi, who labeled me with that phrase."

I must've mumbled something in response. That, of course, wasn't a thing I could hear clearly.

"Say; is it the incapability to love or the incapability of letting go, the cause of such case?"

I know I should really, really stop talking right away, before I made myself look like a regular dingbat, but talking was something I couldn't help, so was leaning on his shoulder. Not that I wanted to, it was because I couldn't feel my neck. And even if it was there alright, it certainly wasn't connected to the head anymore instead of supporting it.

I continued:

"Me, I'd rather belong to the second group, at least even if it's a make-believe, it's better…. I mean, two persons would eventually part, right? There are only two types of parting; if not by death then in life. Both are hard. I can't stand separations. Never."

Silence.

Then he smiled. I only saw it from the corner of my eyes, but I was sure that he was smiling. He lit a new cigarette. The scent affected me even more. A little bit more of this and I'd burst out crying.

"What's your take?" I asked.

"I'd go for the second, too," he said. "That is something I've been thinking about for years, although it never bothers me even once."

Dim lights, summer wind.

In that strange comfort, I fell asleep.

IT MUST'VE BEEN ABOUT FIVE WHEN HE WOKE ME UP.

"Can you walk?" he asked.

I nodded. I wasn't so sure, but I nodded nonetheless.

The streets were almost empty, most lights were out. The houses were still asleep. Finally the game center in front of which he'd parked the car was no more than a dark building with its doors covered by iron shutters.

During the drive to the library, I fell asleep again although soon woke up right before the car made its last turn to reach the library. The drunkenness must've been toned down already, although my head was still light.

When the car stopped in front of the library, I thanked him then got out of the car. He opened the windows of my side. From the gap I could see that he was slightly lost in thought.

It wasn't until a while later that he finally decided to turn off the engine then stepped out of the car as well.

I smiled. Last night, the talk in the park, they now seemed to me like vague dreams.

"Kisara…."

He spoke my name in such low voice that at first I doubted whether it wasn't just me imagining it.

It actually sounded good in my ears.

"If one day we meet again, by chance, and in that moment I am still alone—"

"We'll get married, yeah…." I said. The words were slipping out of my lips uncontrollably. But it didn't bother me.

"Probably," I added.

He approached me. His steps were light, surely those were his regular, unburdened steps. I always liked the way he walked, the way he looked at people with skepticism, the way he held his cigarettes by the bottom of his fingers…. Funny how one starts looking at the other person as if he was a whole new being when a separation is at its peak.

All of a sudden you'll see that person using whole new eyes; as if that person is newly-made and has just being placed there in front of you.

"Probably. There is a phrase I remember: '_Probably is a word you may find south of the border. But never, ever—_"

"_West of the sun'_. " I completed the phrase. Then added:

"I like that book."

"Yeah," he said, smiling.

"I'd keep that 'probably' in me, yes," I said assuredly, returning the smile.

He nodded then headed back toward the car. Unlocking it, he got behind the drive.

I waved, for one last time, before entering the library.

THE LIBRARY IN THE MORNING.

Hearable silence, half-dark interior bathed in bluish lights of the late dawn. I climbed the staircase to collect my things upstairs.

That was then I heard "Träumerei" echoing in the thin air; such soulful, soft, distant sound as if it had since long been suspended there.

The moment seemed to me as if I was walking the corridors of the past, when Mr. Yamamoto was still alive. The music came from the piano room. The entire scene was now at daylight, bright and blurred, as if I was inside an old dream.

There he was, Mr. Yamamoto, playing the song that he had taught me during the final days of his life. In that dreamlike scene he smiled at me. I smiled back. I approached the piano. He continued playing, still smiling at me.

Three last bars.

Then two.

One.

The scene was early dawn again.

I was playing the piano, completing the final chord for him. I had been playing the piano myself. I played it for the two goodbyes.

Five minutes to six.

I collected my things from the cupboard. I gazed at the room for the last time.

"Goodbye," I said to the library then to the separations that preceded them.

_Probably._

It was there, my story with him, and would always be there, looking at me in the eyes the way the Priest looked into the eyes of his lover who died at daylight.

_My favorite ending._


End file.
